stopped
once more.
One last minute, then they rose to their feet and, crouched over,
went running back to Poland.
Mercier had planned to spend the night at a hotel in Katowice but
never gave it a second thought. When they reached the farm, they
climbed into the Buick and drove at speed, bumping and bouncing
over the rutted surface, turning the lights on only when they reached
the main road. Once they left Katowice and were back in the countryside, Marek said, "A close thing."
"Yes. We were lucky, I think."
"I wasn't going to let them take me, colonel."
Mercier nodded. He knew that Marek had been captured by the
Russians when he'd fought in the Polish Legion, under Pilsudski. Ten
hours only, but Marek never forgot what they did to him.
"There is one thing I want to ask you," Marek said. "Why did they
cover up their tank trap?"
"Maybe they changed their minds. Maybe it wasn't where they
wanted it. Maybe there's another one a few hundred yards north, who
can say, but that's the likely explanation. Or, if you wanted to think
another way, an army that's going to attack, with a tank force, will
get rid of the static defenses between them and the enemy border.
Because, then, they're in the way." Mercier's technical description
barely suggested what he feared. This was nothing less than preparation for war; a classic, telltale sign of planned aggression. The journalists could wring their hands from morning edition to night--War
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 72
7 2 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW
is coming! War is coming!--but what he'd found in the darkness
wasn't opinion, it was an abandoned tank trap, defense put aside, and
what came next was offense, attack, houses burning in the night.
Marek didn't want to believe it. After a moment he said, "They
are coming this way, colonel, that is what you think, isn't it. German
tanks, moving onto Polish soil."
"God knows, I don't. Sometimes governments prepare to act, then
change their minds. The wire was still up."
"You'll report it, colonel?"
"Yes, Marek, that's what I do."
They drove all night long, Mercier taking a turn at the wheel for a
few hours. East of Koluszki, Marek driving again, a tire blew out and
they had to stop and change it, the iron wrench freezing their hands.
The sky was turning light as they drove into Warsaw, and when
Mercier let himself into the apartment, Wlada heard him walking
around and, frightened of a possible intruder, called out, "Colonel?"
"Yes, Wlada, it's me."
She opened the door of her room off the kitchen. "You are home
early," she said. "Thank God."
"Yes," he said. "I am. Go back to sleep."
He left his automatic pistol on the desk, now it would have to be
cleaned again. Then, as he took off his field clothing, he thought
about the letter in the drawer of his desk at the embassy, a letter
requesting transfer. That would have to be torn up.
The abandoned tank trap had worked on him--it wasn't much, as
evidence, would mean nothing to the lords of the General Staff, but it
had hit him a certain way and he could not let go of it. Then too, he
thought, settling the Barbour on its hanger, he might, if he stayed in
Warsaw, see Anna Szarbek again. See her alone, somewhere. An afternoon together. Surely he wanted to, maybe she did too.
From the other side of the apartment, Wlada called out to him.
"Good night, colonel."
Yes, dear Wlada, I am home and safe. "Good night, Wlada. Sleep
well."
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 73
ON
RAVEN
HILL
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 74
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 75
7 November, 1937. The Polish Foreign Ministry, housed in an
elegant building on Saxon Square, held its autumn cocktail party in
the ministry library, removing the long polished tables, setting up
a bar--Polish vodka, French champagne, a tribute to the eternal
alliance--in front of the tall draped window at
once more.
One last minute, then they rose to their feet and, crouched over,
went running back to Poland.
Mercier had planned to spend the night at a hotel in Katowice but
never gave it a second thought. When they reached the farm, they
climbed into the Buick and drove at speed, bumping and bouncing
over the rutted surface, turning the lights on only when they reached
the main road. Once they left Katowice and were back in the countryside, Marek said, "A close thing."
"Yes. We were lucky, I think."
"I wasn't going to let them take me, colonel."
Mercier nodded. He knew that Marek had been captured by the
Russians when he'd fought in the Polish Legion, under Pilsudski. Ten
hours only, but Marek never forgot what they did to him.
"There is one thing I want to ask you," Marek said. "Why did they
cover up their tank trap?"
"Maybe they changed their minds. Maybe it wasn't where they
wanted it. Maybe there's another one a few hundred yards north, who
can say, but that's the likely explanation. Or, if you wanted to think
another way, an army that's going to attack, with a tank force, will
get rid of the static defenses between them and the enemy border.
Because, then, they're in the way." Mercier's technical description
barely suggested what he feared. This was nothing less than preparation for war; a classic, telltale sign of planned aggression. The journalists could wring their hands from morning edition to night--War
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 72
7 2 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW
is coming! War is coming!--but what he'd found in the darkness
wasn't opinion, it was an abandoned tank trap, defense put aside, and
what came next was offense, attack, houses burning in the night.
Marek didn't want to believe it. After a moment he said, "They
are coming this way, colonel, that is what you think, isn't it. German
tanks, moving onto Polish soil."
"God knows, I don't. Sometimes governments prepare to act, then
change their minds. The wire was still up."
"You'll report it, colonel?"
"Yes, Marek, that's what I do."
They drove all night long, Mercier taking a turn at the wheel for a
few hours. East of Koluszki, Marek driving again, a tire blew out and
they had to stop and change it, the iron wrench freezing their hands.
The sky was turning light as they drove into Warsaw, and when
Mercier let himself into the apartment, Wlada heard him walking
around and, frightened of a possible intruder, called out, "Colonel?"
"Yes, Wlada, it's me."
She opened the door of her room off the kitchen. "You are home
early," she said. "Thank God."
"Yes," he said. "I am. Go back to sleep."
He left his automatic pistol on the desk, now it would have to be
cleaned again. Then, as he took off his field clothing, he thought
about the letter in the drawer of his desk at the embassy, a letter
requesting transfer. That would have to be torn up.
The abandoned tank trap had worked on him--it wasn't much, as
evidence, would mean nothing to the lords of the General Staff, but it
had hit him a certain way and he could not let go of it. Then too, he
thought, settling the Barbour on its hanger, he might, if he stayed in
Warsaw, see Anna Szarbek again. See her alone, somewhere. An afternoon together. Surely he wanted to, maybe she did too.
From the other side of the apartment, Wlada called out to him.
"Good night, colonel."
Yes, dear Wlada, I am home and safe. "Good night, Wlada. Sleep
well."
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 73
ON
RAVEN
HILL
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 74
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 75
7 November, 1937. The Polish Foreign Ministry, housed in an
elegant building on Saxon Square, held its autumn cocktail party in
the ministry library, removing the long polished tables, setting up
a bar--Polish vodka, French champagne, a tribute to the eternal
alliance--in front of the tall draped window at
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